The shard of the broken broadsword sat on Chen Feng's bedside table, glowing with a faint, nauseating green light that only he could see. After a few minutes of "profound observation" (which mostly looked like he was staring at it while eating cold pizza), Chen Feng realized something bothersome.
The sword hadn't been forged in the old world. It had been forged in a local foundry—specifically, one owned by a subsidiary of the Su Group.
"So," Chen Feng muttered, flicking the shard.
"The assassins trying to kill the Su family are being armed by the Su family. It's a classic 'Internal Parasite' formation. Boring. Predictable. And worst of all, it requires a lot of walking to fix."
He looked at the mountain of paperwork Su Meiling had left for him regarding "Security Protocols." He looked at the sunny morning sky outside.
"I'll deal with it when they actually manage to scratch the paint on my car," he decided, rolling back under the covers. "For now, the Dao of the Nap is calling."
Two hours later, Chen Feng strolled into the Su Group headquarters. He wasn't wearing the charcoal suit. He was wearing a pair of linen trousers, a silk shirt with a print of dancing cranes, and his signature sunglasses.
He didn't go to the security office. He went to the Executive Breakroom.
"Mr. Chen!" a startled secretary exclaimed.
"The Chairman is waiting for you in the boardroom for the quarterly risk assessment!"
"Risk is an illusion, Brenda," Chen Feng said, expertly navigating the espresso machine. "The only true risk is a poorly extracted bean. Tell the Chairman I am currently performing a 'Deep Audit' of the company's morale."
As he waited for his coffee, he noticed a group of junior analysts huddled in the corner, looking like they were about to face a firing squad.
"The merger is going to fail," one groaned. "The data doesn't align. We're going to get fired."
Chen Feng leaned against the counter. "The data doesn't align because you're forcing it. You're like a cultivator trying to break through a bottleneck with a hammer. You need to let the numbers flow."
He reached over and tapped a key on the lead analyst's laptop. He didn't use magic; he just saw the "karmic knot" in the spreadsheet—a single misplaced decimal point that had skewed the entire projection.
"There. The 'energy' is now balanced," Chen Feng said.
The analyst stared at the screen. The red cells turned green. The "impossible" merger suddenly looked like a stroke of genius.
"Who... who are you?"
"I'm the guy who thinks your breakroom needs better snacks," Chen Feng replied, grabbing a handful of free biscotti.
Eventually, Su Meiling dragged him into the boardroom. The atmosphere was thick with tension. The "Internal Parasite" association was likely in this very room—directors and stakeholders who wanted to see the Su family fall.
Chen Feng sat at the far end of the table, tilted his chair back, and put his feet up on the mahogany surface.
"Mr. Chen," a stern director barked. "We are discussing the security breach at the museum. Do you have anything to add, or are you just here for the air conditioning?"
Chen Feng looked through his sunglasses at a middle-aged man sitting to the Director's left. The man was wearing a very expensive watch, but his hands were shaking slightly. His aura smelled of the same green light from the broken sword.
Found him, Chen Feng thought. The mole. He's probably the one signing the checks for the assassins.
"I have one observation," Chen Feng said, yawning.
The room went silent. Even Su Long, the Chairman, looked hopeful.
"The air conditioning is actually a bit too high in the West Wing," Chen Feng stated. "It's bad for the joints. Also, whoever chose the font for this PowerPoint is a criminal. It's a 'Comic Sans' level of spiritual pollution."
Su Meiling face-palmed. The mole visible relaxed, a smug smile tugging at his lips. He clearly thought Chen Feng was just a lucky idiot.
"Is that all?" the Director sneered.
"For now," Chen Feng said, closing his eyes.
"I'm very busy. I have to go see a man about a moped and some spicy strips. Carry on with your 'Risk Assessment.' I'm sure it's very important."
As Chen Feng walked out, he felt the mole's gaze on his back—a gaze filled with murderous intent. Chen Feng just smiled. To a Sovereign, a mole wasn't a threat; it was just a minor pest to be dealt with once the weather got a bit cooler.
"Chen Feng!" Meiling shouted, catching up to him in the lobby. "You knew something back there, didn't you? You looked at Director Zhao like he was a bug!"
"Director Zhao? Is that the one with the shaky hands?" Chen Feng stepped into his purple Lamborghini. "Meiling, if you want to catch a fish, you don't jump into the water and scream. You sit on the bank, stay quiet, and let the fish think it's smarter than you."
"Are you saying he's the traitor?"
"I'm saying I'm hungry," Chen Feng said, revving the engine. "And I've heard there's a new taco truck in the North District that uses 'Flame-Roasted' peppers. If the Dao exists anywhere today, it's in that salsa."